Salt fish fried rice

Hey. Salt fish fried rice. And then, I was walking the streets at night. I'd been dabbling in magic. Sidewalks of wet leaves in many colors. The city's brook ran clear with real water, not that summertime grey stuff laced with motor oil and garnished by shopping carts, as the trees along its bank held on for as long as they as they could to their thinning golden leaves. I would sit with you here on my lap on the bench at the bus stop, both of us not crying, not speaking, all the time knowing that your bus will come very soon and then it will go away again (with you on it). It's that kind of night. Girls playing night soccer through illuminated fog arranged in a straight spirited row along the sideline shouting encouragements in ponytails and braids. Maybe you thought I was going somewhere dirty with that, but I wasn't. It was humid and pleasant and dark and foggy and Fall. I'd been dabbling in magic. The leaves were wet and ablaze with color. The Amazon drivers were gassing up their trucks before parking them for the night. The display rack in the convenience store featured Mexican snack cakes and made me remember West Texas with feeling. When I walk like this, I usually stop muttering curses and mumbling complaints after awhile. I start to feel better about things. I said goodbye to her there not in her place and creaked and groaned my oars which in turn rowed my boat out into the deeper fog and left behind any sense of direction at all. Finally. I was out there walking the streets at night. I'd been dabbling in magic.